


Melt

by tastewithouttalent



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Anime Spoilers, Awkward Sexual Situations, Burnplay, Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Inline with canon, M/M, Masochism, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Anime, Safewords, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-07
Updated: 2016-09-07
Packaged: 2018-08-07 13:55:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7717399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"But that’s all the past, that’s all faded to the blurred sepia of recollection, as if the edges of old photographs are catching to burn with the open flame of Misaki’s fingers bracing hard at Saruhiko’s hips." Saruhiko is cold and Misaki's blood runs hot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Melt

Misaki’s touch burns like fire.

Saruhiko has always thought so. When they were younger touching Misaki was like a game, like waving his fingertips through an open flame to see how close he could edge to the heat without burning pain into his skin. Later, when Saruhiko had fire of his own crackling in his veins and ready to spill from his palms at a moment’s notice he thought he could match it, thought that maybe the borrowed heat under his skin would let him press close enough to the other to unwind the knot of icy anxiety that he’s carried against the inside of his chest ever since the first day Misaki smiled at him and Saruhiko understood the self-destructive impulse of moths and Icarus. After he joined Scepter 4 he barely felt the heat at all anymore; it was all in memories, the scar of a burn instead of the sharp-bright heat of the damage itself, and the only warmth Saruhiko could find was in dragging the searing heat of borrowed power over his own skin to echo back what Misaki’s felt like. But that’s all the past, that’s all faded to the blurred sepia of recollection, as if the edges of old photographs are catching to burn with the open flame of Misaki’s fingers bracing hard at Saruhiko’s hips.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Misaki asks, not for the first time, his voice cracking high and plaintive on uncertainty. Saruhiko doesn’t care about the question, doesn’t mind offering whatever reassurance Misaki’s too-tentative self-confidence requires; but he does care about the way Misaki’s movements slow with each inquiry, the way the forward thrust of his hips stalls nearly to stillness while he waits for a reply.

Saruhiko fists his fingers on the sheets under him. “ _Yes_ ,” he grates, and shoves himself back towards Misaki on his knees behind him. “Don’t stop, Misaki.”

“Oh,” Misaki says, “sorry” and he starts moving again, fast as if to make up for his brief hesitation. It doesn’t make up for it -- the shiver of tension that was starting along Saruhiko’s spine has been startled off again -- but the force jolts Saruhiko forward over the bed, Misaki driving into him gusts the air from his lungs, and it might not be quite pleasure but the strain of the pressure is close enough that Saruhiko moans with the force.

“God,” Misaki gasps over him. His fingers tighten at Saruhiko’s hips; Saruhiko’s spine prickles in anticipation, in hope of something more, but there’s just the weight of Misaki’s skin on his, no heat greater than the faint burn offered by the friction of the other’s grip. Saruhiko wonders if it will even leave a mark. “I’m not hurting you?”

“No,” Saruhiko says, and turns his head down against the sheets so Misaki can’t see the way the word drags at his mouth, won’t see the strain of frustrated desire tense over his forehead. “You’re not hurting me.”

“Okay,” Misaki says, and thrusts forward again, hard enough that Saruhiko’s spine curves with the force, that his throat tightens on a groan of reaction. It’s still not quite pleasure, not quite the heat he was chasing down before; but Misaki reacts to it anyway, drawing back with more care and rocking in again to tense Saruhiko’s shoulders tight on involuntary response. “God, Saru, you feel so good.”

“Fuck,” Saruhiko groans into the sheets. “Don’t stop,” again, repetition straining in his chest on the desperate edge of need in his veins. Misaki is still moving into him, has shown no sign of slowing, but Saruhiko can’t shake the tension laying itself along his spine, can’t still the tremor under his skin like he’s trying to fight off a chill in spite of the sweat slick across his shoulders and damp in his hair.

“I won’t,” Misaki promises, and he’s not; he’s moving with a rhythm, now, with a focus that Saruhiko can imagine creasing his forehead and dragging a frown over his lips without any intention on the other’s part. It feels good, in the way of simple physical pleasure; there’s a shudder running through Saruhiko with every forward drive of Misaki’s hips, his cock is half-hard just from the friction of the other fucking into him. But it’s not enough, he’s sure, even if Misaki continues for an hour all he’ll manage to do is to quiver and shake himself into helpless frustration, and that used to be all he could attain, during those long, cold months of isolation like winter but for what painful heat his own fingertips could offer, but it’s not winter anymore, and he’s not alone anymore.

It takes some effort to unclench his fingers from the sheets. Saruhiko has to lift his head from its forward angle, has to fix his own hand with deliberate attention before he can persuade his fingers to ease their desperate hold. Misaki loses his rhythm for a moment, his forward strokes stalling as Saruhiko pushes up to brace against one hand and reach down with the other; but Saruhiko doesn’t take the trouble to tell him to keep going, and after a moment Misaki resumes again with enough force to make up for the momentary hesitation. Saruhiko curls his fingers around himself, drags up over the sensitive skin of his half-hard length, and it shudders a ripple of friction out into his veins but it also makes him tense involuntarily and clenches his body tight around Misaki inside him, and Saruhiko hisses at that but Misaki moans, and the sound of his voice breaking open is like fire in the air.

“Keep going,” Saruhiko says, the command needless and more for himself than for Misaki as he tightens his hand and starts to stroke over himself with determination. He’s swelling in his own hold, his cock stiffening to match the resistance of Misaki inside him, but Misaki’s fingers are tightening too, digging into Saruhiko’s hips to print the deep-down burn of bruises into the fragile skin over sharp-edged bone. It feels good immediately, feels better when Saruhiko rocks back against the force, and Saruhiko’s breathing is catching, is sticking in the back of his throat with each of Misaki’s thrusts into him.

“God,” Misaki whines over him, “so good,” and Saruhiko wants to tell him he’s being inane but he’s too busy gasping for air and stroking harder so the waves of sensation rushing through him come faster even than they are just drawn by Misaki’s movements. His palm catches against his skin, sticks for a moment of too-much friction, and Saruhiko jolts with the feel of it, his spine arching in a way that makes Misaki moan something helpless and thrust forward harder. Saruhiko’s weight is pushed forward by the force, his one-handed balance giving way to collapse him forward over the bed, but he doesn’t try to push himself back to upright; he just presses his arm up over his head instead, fists at the sheets to hold himself steady and pulls harder with his hand clasped tight around himself. It feels good, he can feel the tension radiating out into his limbs and tensing in the gap between his shoulderblades; even the strain against the top of his thighs is satisfying, aching like a foretaste of the relief to come. Saruhiko takes a breath against his sheets, tightens his hold around the head of his cock; and Misaki groans behind him, “ _Saruhiko_ ” in the full-throated tone he only ever takes when he’s close. Saruhiko’s fingers clench tighter, his whole body tensing in premonition, but all he has time to manage is “Misaki” rushed into the beginnings of a warning before Misaki moans and bucks forward with all the rough instinct of orgasm behind his movements. It feels good, in a distant way, but the heat of Misaki coming into him is only a glow for Saruhiko’s veins, only the faroff warmth of indirect sunlight for the dug-in chill in his blood and bones.

“God,” Misaki pants, his breathing hot at the back of Saruhiko’s neck. “Saru, _god_ , you feel so good.”

“Yeah,” Saruhiko says, his voice muffled at the sheets, and Misaki’s hold at his hip tightens, bracing him in place as the other rocks back to pull out of him. Saruhiko’s body aches with the loss, his skin crying out for lost friction as Misaki pulls back and eases his hold against his hip.

“Sorry,” he says, belated apology for the wrong thing as Saruhiko shifts his knees and lets himself slide down to lie on his stomach over the bed. “I didn’t think I’d come so fast.”

“Virgin,” Saruhiko tells him, any edge the insult could have possibly carried worn off by the force of evidence, and Misaki snaps back “Shut _up_ ,” his tone as harsh on irrational reaction as Saruhiko’s was on the familiar taunt. “It’s not like it makes a difference really.”

“For you,” Saruhiko says, shifting his knees to give himself more space to move against the bed, to grant himself enough leeway to resume stroking over himself. “I still haven’t come yet.”

“That’s fine,” Misaki tells him, his answer coming quickly enough Saruhiko almost doesn’t notice the high catch of self-consciousness on the words, as if talking about sex is infinitely more embarrassing than actually having it. “I can--I can still get you off.”

“ _Can_ you?” Saruhiko asks, drawling the words into a taunt in the back of his throat as he tips his head to look back over his shoulder at Misaki. He can’t see the other’s face as clearly as usual with his glasses knocked lopsided on his nose, but Misaki’s frown is weighty enough to see even before his hand closes at Saruhiko’s hip and drags at the other’s weight.

“ _Yeah_ ,” he says, the assurance sharp with the defensive force Saruhiko was trying to needle out of him, and Saruhiko laughs bright disbelief as he lets himself turn over onto his back over the sheets. He still has his hand curled around himself, his grip more idle than deliberate, and when Misaki reaches out to shove his hold away Saruhiko lets his arm fall slack alongside the bed next to him rather than offering any resistance.

“Force isn’t the same thing as skill,” Saruhiko points out, slinging the words to mockery even though he’s going harder just from the idea of Misaki touching him. “If you’re just going to be rough--” and Misaki closes his hand tight around Saruhiko’s length, and Saruhiko has to close his mouth on the jolt of heat that lances through him like lightning dropping from the sky to kiss the earth.

“I _know_ ,” Misaki snaps, and jerks up hard enough that Saruhiko’s spine arches to lift him off the bed by inches, to strain tension all through his thighs and against the small of his back. “I’m not an idiot, Saru.” He braces a hand against the bed, his knees shift to steady himself, and he pulls up again, stroking through a quick surge of motion that whites out Saruhiko’s vision to a blur of reaction while he’s gasping soundless at the air.

“You like it,” Misaki’s voice tells him, sounding like it’s coming from a long distance away, and Saruhiko blinks hard to draw his vision back to clarity so he can tip his chin down and see the way Misaki is watching him. His mouth is still curving on a frown, his forehead is still tense with attention; but there’s no uncertainty behind his eyes, and the words didn’t sound like a question. “Don’t you.” That’s not a question either, there’s no inquiry under the sound of Misaki’s voice, and then he strokes over Saruhiko again and Saruhiko makes a noise he can’t restrain that offers the answer Misaki isn’t waiting for.

“Fuck,” Saruhiko pants, and shuts his eyes to hide from the attention in Misaki’s gaze. “More.”

Misaki huffs, the sound as much relief as amusement. “I knew it,” he says, and strokes hard over Saruhiko, twisting his wrist in a way that drags another quavering moan up Saruhiko’s throat. It feels good, better than good: it feels _hot_ , but when Saruhiko gasps it’s to strain for coherency, and when he moves it’s to reach and grab Misaki’s hand to stillness.

“Not that,” he says, and lets his hold go so he can fumble sideways for the other’s bracing wrist, can close his hold tight at Misaki’s hand and tug to urge him sideways. Misaki is slow to react; when he does it’s with a gasp, a huff of shock Saruhiko can feel burn unfamiliar self-consciousness over the whole of his sweat-slick skin.

“ _Oh_ ,” Misaki says, and lifts his hand off the sheets alongside Saruhiko’s hip. His fingertips skim Saruhiko’s skin and bump at the inside of the other’s knee before he hesitates himself into uncertainty. “Saru, are you sure…?”

Saruhiko can feel his jaw set, can feel his chest tense on frustration. “Misaki,” he says, and opens his eyes so he can tip his chin down and glare at the other. “Are you going to fingerfuck me or not?”

Misaki’s entire face goes scarlet. “I’m,” he says, but his flush catches his mouth to silence and he has to duck his head. “I’m going to.” He leaves the sentence unfinished, leaves the color all across his face to speak the unstated words; but his hand is moving, his fingers sliding up to press against the other’s entrance, so Saruhiko doesn’t push the point to see how dark he can get Misaki to flush. It’s enough to have the pressure grinding against him, enough to have the promise of a stretch carried by the slide of Misaki’s touch over him, and he’s just about to open his mouth to snap some similar taunt for more when Misaki takes a breath and moves all on his own to thrust two fingers into Saruhiko at once.

“Oh,” Misaki groans, “ _Saru_ ” but Saruhiko doesn’t have the breath to answer him, not with Misaki’s touch scorching a path of fire in the wake of his motion. He makes some strange noise, something part a moan and mostly a whimper, and Misaki pulls his touch back and thrusts in again, harder this time, hard enough that Saruhiko’s legs strain against the bed to arch him off the support of the sheets and towards the other’s touch.

“More,” he says, staring unseeing at the ceiling over him as his heart pounds to desperation against the inside of his chest. “Misaki, _more_.”

“Okay,” Misaki says. “Yeah.” He draws his hand back, drives in again; after a moment he resumes the stroke of his hand, too, picking up the rhythm he had dropped for the force of his fingers inside Saruhiko’s body. He finds a strange rhythm, a back-and-forth between both hands that makes Saruhiko feel like he’s being undone, like he’s drowning under a wave of endless sensation between Misaki’s touch stretching him open and Misaki’s palm dragging rough against his cock. Saruhiko’s panting for air, his legs straining to urge him closer, and it’s in the midst of the heat-haze eclipsing his vision that he speaks, the aching want in his chest finding voice he doesn’t mean to give it.

“Misaki,” desperate, raw, he almost doesn’t recognize his own voice in his ears. “I want--” He reaches for Misaki’s wrist, closes his fingers bruise-tight against the shift of tendons under the other’s skin. “ _More_.”

“Harder?” Misaki suggests, suiting his movement to the question without waiting for a reply. Saruhiko arches off the bed, groans a shudder of response to the friction, but he’s shaking his head, rejecting the idea as fast as Misaki offers it.

“No,” he says, and he shuts his eyes for a moment, straining for the composure he needs to reach for the shimmer of light deep in his veins, the thread of color that lives in symbiosis with him instead of the edge of barely-controlled danger Homra’s scarlet always was. It’s easy to call it up, even if the strain in his body is insisting it’s unneeded, that the hyper-focused combat adrenaline it grants is unnecessary; it’s not the result he needs but the glow of the color around his hands, the haze of blue clinging to his skin to suggest to Misaki what he can’t find the words to say himself.

“What?” Misaki says, his voice going shrill on confusion as Saruhiko’s palms tingle with the shiver of awareness that always comes with the use of the latent power that rests like a promise under his skin. “I don’t get it, you want me to--” and then he gets it, and Saruhiko opens his eyes to look down just as Misaki’s movement stills, just as he lifts his head to stare at Saruhiko with eyes wide on sudden, terrified understanding.

“I can’t,” he says, the rejection instant on his tongue the way Saruhiko knew it would be, radiant with the panic Saruhiko can feel flexing through the line of Misaki’s fingers in and around him. “I’ll hurt you.”

Saruhiko doesn’t have an answer for that. _Probably_ , he wants to say. _I want it_ , the words slick with sincerity even in the space of his own mind. He doesn’t have words for the worst of it, for the ache in his chest that tells him to wing towards the sun, that wants to skirt closer and closer to the edge of danger until it’s too much, until his feathers burst into ash in a blaze of beautiful, incandescent failure. He’s lost his own fire with Mikoto’s death -- his embers have burnt to cold, leaving only the streaks of a few too-brief forays into self-immolation that left him hissing in pain instead of groaning satisfaction. The scar at his shoulder is still there to speak to that, the itch that comes with the thought of Misaki there to remind him it’s from his own hand and not the other’s; because it’s not that Saruhiko wants to burn as much as that he wants to throw himself into the fire that is Misaki, that he wants to know how it feels to print the weight of the other’s fingerprints against his too-fragile flesh in heat enough to leave a mark more permanent than bruises or clean-edged cuts.

Saruhiko takes a breath, tastes air like ash on his tongue, and says the only thing he can say. “ _Please_.”

Saruhiko doesn’t expect it to work. Misaki is too wide-eyed, too horrified by the idea of causing harm, as if there’s any harm Saruhiko would feel more keenly than the other’s absence. But there’s nothing else he can say, no other words he has for this other than the want coursing so close to the surface of his flushed skin that he feels he must give it voice or die. Saruhiko closes his eyes again, feels his throat tense on preemptive emotion for the rejection he knows is coming; and “Alright,” Misaki says, rushing over the word so quickly Saruhiko doesn’t have time to make sense of it before the other is continuing. “You have to tell me if I hurt you, though.”

Saruhiko’s eyes open wide, his attention dropping down to Misaki between his knees before he can think it through. Misaki is looking at him, his mouth set and eyes dark; he flushes as he meets Saruhiko’s gaze, his cheeks darkening to scarlet as he ducks his head to look away from the other’s disbelieving stare.

“You have to,” he says, all but mumbling the words to Saruhiko’s stomach. “Or I won’t do it at all. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Okay,” Saruhiko says, his voice rushing fast past his lips with the urgency of shock. “Okay, yeah, I will.” He reaches for a follow-up, stretching for half-forgotten memories of scenarios he only ever fantasized about and never expected to actually be in. “I’ll say _Mikoto_ if I want you to stop.”

Misaki looks back up at him, his forehead creasing in confusion. “ _What_?”

“I’m not likely to say it otherwise,” Saruhiko snaps. “Do it, Misaki.”

Misaki’s mouth twists, catching on the beginnings of a laugh at this reply; but then he’s looking back down, his attention caught by what he’s doing, and his laughter fades as his blush darkens. Saruhiko can see the color staining Misaki’s cheeks, can see the tension in the set of the other’s mouth as he presses his teeth against the edge of his lip; but then he takes a breath, and straightens his shoulders like he’s steadying himself, and Saruhiko knows what’s coming even before he sees the flicker of color rise into existence around Misaki’s hands.

It’s only warm, at first. The flame is barely there, sputtering like a candleflame in a gusty room as Saruhiko watches; the heat it offers is barely enough for him to notice, hardly a match for even the natural heat of Misaki’s palms. But then Misaki moves, sliding his hold on Saruhiko’s length up in a drag of sensation, and Saruhiko’s whole body prickles into fire that saps his focus and drags a helpless moan of sound from his throat as he falls back to the bed. His hips rock up, his legs straining towards more sensation, and Misaki resumes that motion too, finding a rhythm for the action of his hands that is far slower and more tentative than what came before.

Saruhiko doesn’t complain. Misaki’s movements might be more careful but his touch is warm, is hot, is glowing hotter with every heartbeat of time that passes. The grip against Saruhiko’s cock is a flame, is scorching friction out under his skin with every stroke; and the fingers inside him are better still, they’re burning as if to chase away the chill that lingers in his body from the inside out. Saruhiko’s shuddering at the bed, his movements going jerky and involuntary in response to the motion, and Misaki is still moving without waiting for confirmation, working his fingers deeper to sear his touch so far inside the other that Saruhiko’s sure he’ll never lose it. His heels slip on the sheets, his body bucking up again in incoherent plea for more; and Misaki is moving harder, faster, his touch flickering hotter with every pass. Saruhiko is sure he could see the crimson clearly if he looked for it now, is sure Misaki’s hands are glowing as brightly as his own used to; but he can’t see clearly enough to even think of making the attempt, can’t catch his breath for the tension knotting against his heart like the last desperate gasp of winter trying to freeze him before spring melts him back to life. Misaki’s touch is radiating heat, the glow of the contact spilling into Saruhiko’s veins even as his skin aches with the friction, as his body flinches protest from the threat of a burn; and he’s speaking, he can hear the words falling from his lips like a strange, desperate echo of his heartbeat, “More, more, _more_ ” until his whole body is shaking with it, until he feels like he’s going to collapse under Misaki’s touch. It’s too much, it’s too far, his cock is aching like it’s sunburnt and his body is tensing in instinctive protest to the heat pressing inside him; but Saruhiko says “ _More_ ,” and Misaki pushes the burn of his fingers in deeper, and the threat of pain tips over the edge into actual hurt just as the tension in Saruhiko’s chest caves, and melts, and dissolves to steam under Misaki’s touch. Saruhiko gasps an inhale, choking on the heat of air in his lungs; and then he shudders, and jolts, and comes like he’s dying, like he’s melting, the moan in his throat raw and anxious like a plea for help or a bone-deep wail of relief. His body is aching, his skin protesting the too-hot weight of Misaki’s touch on him; but his blood is singing, is rushing over itself to form eddies of pleasure that spill and settle into all the dips of his body. Somewhere Misaki is taking a breath of relief, somewhere Misaki’s touch is fading from flame to the steady glow of human contact; but Saruhiko doesn’t care, doesn’t mind the loss any more than he minds the damp collecting at his lashes to spill hot across his cheeks.

It feels good to breathe warm air again.


End file.
